


Upon the Heart

by alexanderavery998



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: (yet), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Cannibalism, Canon-Typical Violence, Discussions of Fluid Sexuality, First Kiss, Gore, Hannibal Lecter is a Cannibal, Hannibal Lecter is the Chesapeake Ripper, M/M, Murder, New Year's Eve, POV Will Graham, Post-Episode: s01e08 Fromage, Relationship Negotiation, Soulmarks, Soulmarks appear after kissing your soulmate, Soulmates, Will Graham Has Encephalitis, Will doesn't know, an attempt at dealing with Will's encephalitis semi-realistically
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-27
Updated: 2021-01-11
Packaged: 2021-02-28 05:09:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 16,762
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22918237
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alexanderavery998/pseuds/alexanderavery998
Summary: Will Graham is convinced that he doesn’t have a soulmate, so when Hannibal Lecter kisses him on New Year’s and they develop matching soulmate marks, he is more than a little surprised. But that surprise turns into turmoil and suspicion when he realizes that Hannibal fits the profile of the Chesapeake Ripper almost perfectly. If his soulmate is truly the notorious serial killer...well, what does that say about him?
Relationships: Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 56
Kudos: 378





	1. I

**Author's Note:**

> _I cross-post here (AO3), Wattpad, and FFN as_ @alexanderavery998. _If you find my fics anywhere else, please let me know, because that means they have been reposted without my permission._
> 
> This was inspired by two prompts from the 2020 Open Novella Contest on Wattpad: “Well, that’s a New Year’s Eve kiss you won’t forget anytime soon,” because I’ve been dying to write a New Year’s Eve Hannigram fic, and “You meet someone who seems to be perfect for you, but after digging into their past it turns out a string of crimes has been following them. None of those crimes have officially been solved,” because let’s be real, this is what Hannigram is. I probably shouldn’t be starting yet another fic right now when I haven’t finished _Fortune’s Fool_ or any of my other WIPs, but here I am, making bad decisions. Enjoy!

Will Graham stood near the edge of the room, holding his glass of champagne as if it were a lifeline in the middle of a raging ocean. In a way, it was; he hated crowds, people, and being sociable, and attending a New Year’s Eve party checked all three boxes.

He still wasn’t sure why he was there. Maybe it was due to guilt for turning down all of Dr. Lecter’s prior invitations. Maybe it was because the two men had grown closer recently, what with their shared near-death experience and all. Maybe it was the idea of spending yet another New Year’s Eve with only his dogs and a bottle of whiskey for company that pushed him over the edge. Whatever it was, he was here now.

He already regretted it.

Will sipped his champagne and let his eyes roam over the crowd, careful not to make eye contact with anyone. He didn’t know most of the people in attendance. The majority of them were rich urban socialites, flitting from group to group with artificial politeness and saccharine smiles. That woman over there was pretending to laugh at a man’s joke, but her wandering eyes betrayed her boredom. An older man and woman with their arms linked possessively were both checking out other people. A group of five or six nearby chuckled and clinked their glasses together.

The only person Will didn’t see was the host. Dr. Hannibal Lecter was a well-known and respected psychiatrist in the Baltimore area, with a love of the arts and throwing elaborate dinner parties. Will didn’t know if it was possible for two people to be more different. If Hannibal was eccentric, refined, and formal, then Will was antisocial, unpretending, and blunt. Yet somehow they were friends.

Will had initially resisted Hannibal’s attempts at friendship, and for good reason — Hannibal was his unofficial psychiatrist. Besides the general murkiness of such a relationship, Will hated having people in his head. There was already far too much speculation about how his mind worked. Psychiatrists salivated over his supposed empathy disorder and mental instability, and he was too aware of the tools they used to pry into people’s minds for therapy to work on him.

But he hadn’t had a choice. Until a few months ago, Will had been a professor at the FBI Academy in Quantico, Virginia. Then Special Agent Jack Crawford had roped him in to help solve a tough case in addition to his teaching. Suffice to say, profiling the killer, not to mention fatally shooting him to save the killer’s daughter, had taken its toll on him. The only way that Jack could get Will to see a psychiatrist was if it was unofficial. Hence Hannibal was brought in.

Under any other circumstance, they would never have met. Will certainly didn’t want to be his friend. But Will appreciated that he didn’t force himself into his head like other psychiatrists. Too many of them were clumsy, fumbling around up there like a child given free reign in a candy shop and knocking down all the displays in their eagerness. Hannibal was more subtle. He seemed to find Will’s abrasiveness and deflection amusing rather than rude. Even better, Hannibal didn’t judge him, even after he admitted to sleepwalking, hallucinations, and vivid murder fantasies. (The last one he had been sure would be a deal-breaker on the no-judgment thing.)

Despite his initial reluctance, Will had begun to enjoy the doctor’s company. Hannibal was his paddle in the roaring rapids of his subconscious. Will continued to work for the FBI; profiling serial killers continued to take its toll on his psyche; and Hannibal was there through all of it, even as Will feared that his grip on reality was leaking through his fingers like sand. It was almost as if they were...well, _friends_.

Their friendship was solidified after they were attacked by a serial killer during the most recent case. Realizing the FBI was closing in on him, the killer had murdered two police officers. In the resulting struggle, Will managed to get a shot off and graze the killer’s ear, but he escaped. Then he murdered one of Hannibal’s patients and attacked Hannibal. It had been a good stroke of luck that Hannibal was able to get the upper hand and kill the killer before he could harm anyone else.

Since then, their friendship had a new sense of intimacy to it; Will might even call it genuine affection. He wasn’t sure what to do with it. It was only recently that one of their colleagues, Dr. Alana Bloom, had rejected Will’s poorly-timed romantic advances. He was still reeling from that rejection, and he was generally unaccustomed to friends, even less so the intimate kind. Not to mention that something about his feelings for Hannibal strayed too close to the line between romantic and platonic — too close to where his feelings for Alana resided — for comfort.

Will downed the rest of his glass of champagne and took another off the tray of a passing waiter. He didn’t want to think too deeply about whatever the fuck his feelings for Hannibal were, psychiatrist, friend, colleague, or otherwise.

As he considered whether or not he wanted to get drunk or merely tipsy, Will spotted Jack and his wife, Bella, across the room. The Crawfords were an attractive couple, a shining example of what soulmates could be in a perfect world. Jack Crawford was a well-built man, broad-shouldered and stocky. He was also powerful and intimidating. If Jack radiated power in an aggressive manner, then Bella’s power was more refined and regal. She was a beautiful woman, with thick dark brown curls, full deep red lips, and razor-sharp wit. They balanced each other out, and even many years since their initial meeting, they were madly in love.

As they approached Will, however, the appearance of perfect conjugal bliss melted away. Wrinkles were becoming a semi-permanent feature of Jack’s face. Bella’s grip on her husband’s arm was tighter than usual, and she leaned some of her weight against him.

“Will. Good to see you.” Jack shook his hand, smiling even as his eyes betrayed the heaviness of his soul. It was one of the many reasons Will disliked eye contact, and he looked away as soon as he could. “We didn’t expect to see you here.”

“ _Jack_ didn’t expect you to be here,” Bella corrected, her tone equal parts amusement and tired resignation. “He has yet to learn that he can only speak for himself.”

Jack dipped his head. That seemed to be enough for his wife, because his next words were straight to the point: “Forgive us, Will, but we must head home. It’s getting late.”

“You’re not going to stay for the ball drop?”

To his credit, Jack didn’t glance at Bella and kept his answer neutral, leaning on the royal _we_. “We’d like to be home before midnight.”

Bella smiled tightly. “Ever the gentleman. Jack wants me home before midnight. Doctor’s orders.”

Will nodded awkwardly. Bella had been recently diagnosed with Stage 4 lung cancer, and since then, Jack had fussed over her and worried himself into premature wrinkles and graying hair. It was always a sad thing when someone lost or was in the process of losing their soulmate, but at the rate Jack was going, Will wondered if he was planning on worrying himself to an early death so he could go out with her.

The silence stretched between the three of them, and Will realized too late that he was expected to say something in response to Bella. The Crawfords’ body language was enough to tell him that. He cleared his throat, fishing around for the appropriate response.

“Uh, well, have a good evening.”

It was a lame response, but it seemed to satisfy them — Jack especially, since he worked with Will on a regular basis, and so expected nothing more from him. The Crawfords bowed out, and Will was left alone again, adrift in a sea of strangers. He sipped his champagne as he kept to the edges of the room. He hadn’t seen the host of the party since arriving and letting the hired doorman take his coat. Hannibal had welcomed him warmly, his dark brown eyes shining at the sight of him, which was almost enough to keep him from regretting coming.

Almost.

Eventually, Hannibal came into view. He was an oddly handsome man, tall and lean, with sharp, angled cheekbones and slightly graying hair. He dressed primarily in three-piece suits, and tonight was no exception: he wore an all-black suit with a deep golden tie and matching pocket square, his hair slicked back neatly.

For a moment, Will considered going to join him, despite his desire not to trail after him like a lost puppy. But before he could come to a conclusion, he spotted Alana and his mind was made up for him. She was in a black lace dress and heels, stunning as always; but it was the way that she matched Hannibal’s outfit, the gentle hand Hannibal had placed on her waist, and the parting of her lips in a laugh as Hannibal murmured in her ear that made Will’s stomach twist. He turned and pushed his way through the crowd in the opposite direction, fingers white around the stem of his glass. It was only once he found the kitchen and stepped out onto the freezing patio that he could breathe.

He didn’t know why he was upset. Sure, it had only been a few weeks ago that he’d kissed Alana and she’d rejected him. Even though he already knew the answer, after she’d left, Will had searched in vain for the appearance of a soulmate mark on his skin. He didn’t bother asking her if a mark had appeared for her; if they were unrequited soulmates, she wouldn’t be the one left out to dry. Will had terrible luck when it came to relationships. And if the tightness in his chest was any indication, that bad luck was continuing.

Will cursed himself silently, his breath furling out in front of him in the cold night air. He was being ridiculous. Alana was allowed to flirt with and pursue other people. He didn’t have any claim over her; they weren’t soulmates, they weren’t dating, and she’d already turned him down. But to see her with Hannibal...

After the disastrous kiss with Alana, Will had driven an hour and a half in the snow to tell Hannibal about it. As embarrassing as that impulsive move was, Hannibal was patient enough. He’d dismissed the kiss as a desperate clutch for balance and then served him dessert. He didn’t seem to care that Will had shown up jittery and unannounced, and his dismissive nature was enough to convince Will that he was overreacting.

So what was this? Had Hannibal decided to pursue Alana now that Will had failed?

Will took a deep breath and held it, relishing the way the cold burned in his lungs. It didn’t matter. Hannibal was no more obligated to Will than Alana was. Hannibal and Alana could do whatever the fuck they wanted, and Will would just have to deal with it. Maybe it would turn out that Hannibal and Alana were soulmates. The thought hurt more than he’d anticipated.

He stood on the patio, hands stuffed in his pockets, letting the cold seep into his bones and bite at his exposed flesh. Large fluffy flakes floated from the darkened sky and danced on the light wind. Everything was covered in two or three inches of snow. Inside, the party continued, none the worse for his absence. Will stood there until he began to feel numb, and then longer, until he lost track of time. He could’ve been outside for many hours, for all he knew.

“Will?”

Will started and turned; Hannibal was standing in the doorway, patio door half open.

“How long have you been out there? Come inside. You’re going to get hypothermia.”


	2. II

Will stepped into the kitchen and stood in the doorway, a little dazed. Hannibal placed a gentle hand on his waist to move him out of the way so that he could close the back door. Then he led Will to the leather armchair in the liminal space between his spacious kitchen and the dining room and had him sit down.

“How long were you out there?” Hannibal repeated.

Will blinked and scrubbed a hand across his face. “Uh...I-I don’t know. Half an hour? Maybe? I lost track of time.”

Hannibal scrutinized him. Then he pulled out a mug from an upper cabinet, set it on the kitchen counter, and said, “How many glasses of champagne have you had?”

“Two?” Will held out the half-full glass he was still clutching like a lifeline. “This might be my third, actually.”

Hannibal approached and stretched out his hand. When Will didn’t move away, he gently pried the champagne glass out of his fingers and set it on the countertop.

“Contrary to popular belief, alcohol doesn’t warm the body,” Hannibal said as he sorted through various pots and pans in the cabinets. “It dilates the blood vessels and gives the outward appearance of warmth, while inhibiting the body’s ability to regulate its core temperature. People can get hypothermia without even knowing it. You’re not shivering, which concerns me.” He moved over to the kitchen island, placed two pots on the burners, and turned on the flame. Then he leaned against the island and said, “Why did you stand out there without a coat? If you wanted solitude, I could have opened a quiet room for you, or at the very least fetched you your coat.”

Will avoided eye contact with him, watching the flames lick at the bases of the stainless steel pots. What was he supposed to say? ‘ _I saw you and Alana together and got jealous_ ’? It sounded ridiculous, even to himself, so he said nothing.

When it became clear that Will was not going to respond, Hannibal left the room. He was hardly gone long before he reappeared with a blanket and draped it over Will’s shoulders. Will pulled it around himself gratefully. There was a warmth brewing in his chest that he didn’t think was related to the blanket or the alcohol, as well as guilt — Hannibal was so nice to him, and he was being nothing but difficult in return.

Meanwhile, Hannibal had returned to the burners to stir whatever was in the pots. “Your physical health is just as important as your mental health, Will. Neglecting either is to the detriment of both.”

He didn’t seem to be expecting a response, which was good, because Will didn’t have one. The resulting silence that fell over them was comfortable. The kitchen smelled sweet, like cinnamon and vanilla. Hannibal poured the contents of one pot into the other and whisked it together, then poured the mixture into the mug on the counter, sprinkled something in it, and brought it to Will.

Will took the mug and squinted down at the steaming dark brown liquid. The mug was hot against his chilly skin. It took him a few moments to realize what it was.

“You made me hot chocolate?”

Hannibal glanced up from where he was rinsing Will’s champagne glass. “Yes.”

Will took a sip without waiting, and the liquid scalded his tongue. The cinnamon and vanilla he’d smelled were there, plus rich dark chocolate and something else he couldn’t identify. It was some of the best hot chocolate he’d ever tasted.

“It’s delicious, thank you.”

“My pleasure.” Hannibal dried his hands and leaned against the counter nearest to where Will was bundled up. “It’s my own recipe, perfected over years of bitter cold winters in Lithuania. What do you taste?”

Will took another sip, ignoring the way his tongue went numb from the burning hot liquid. “Besides the chocolate and milk? Um, cinnamon, vanilla...and something else I’m not quite catching. It’s savory. And there’s a little bit of heat, too.”

The corner of Hannibal’s mouth quirked up. “The heat comes from ancho chili powder. I find it gives just enough kick to balance out the sweetness. Your palate is improving.”

“That’s likely a consequence of being served fancy ten-course meals whenever I come over. It’s like you’re trying to fatten me up,” Will mustered the energy to joke.

The quirk in Hannibal’s lips became a genuine smile that reached his eyes. “It’s always my pleasure to have friends for dinner.” He waved to the mug. “Finish your drink.”

Will sipped the hot chocolate slowly to save his poor tongue. Meanwhile, Hannibal bustled around the kitchen, washing dishes and tidying up. Most of the food he’d made had already been served; the last round of desserts was sitting on the rolling stainless steel table, ready for pick-up. The waiters came for them just as Will finished his hot chocolate. Hannibal snagged a dessert plate before they left and traded it to Will for his empty mug. Will murmured his thanks.

The plate had three desserts on it, each looking as delicious as the last: a bite-sized swirled cheesecake, a yellow cake topped with meringue and sliced almonds, and a ruby macaron with cream-colored filling.

“Each of the desserts has something in it considered lucky for the New Year,” Hannibal said, taking his place against the counter near Will. “In the Philippines, it is tradition to serve twelve round fruits to attract good fortune and prosperity for the year ahead, hence the blueberry in the cheesecake. The lemon meringue cake is a twist on _vasilopita_ , and the macarons are made with pomegranate, both Greek traditions.”

“In Louisiana, we eat black-eyed peas, pork, greens, and cornbread.” The words were out of Will’s mouth before he could stop them, complete with the faint Louisiana drawl. It was harder to hide his accent when he felt tired or ill, and after drinking and staying out too long in the cold, he was feeling both. But mercifully, Hannibal didn’t comment on it; instead, he said,

“In Lithuania, New Year’s Eve dishes are similar to those served on Christmas Eve, except with meat. Beet soup with vegetable dumplings, fish, bread, pork, and sausage. I have yet to find a restaurant in Baltimore that serves the kind of Lithuanian food I remember from my childhood.”

The tightness in Will’s chest loosened a little. He felt less anxious baring a part of himself when Hannibal was willing to reciprocate, and with that, he turned to the desserts. He tried each one in turn and was delighted by how good they were, a perfect balance of salty and sweet; usually Hannibal made savory dishes, but it turned out his desserts were sublime, too. And then the tightness was back in full force, a persistent reminder that this was _Dr. Lecter_ he was talking about, _of course_ he’d be talented at anything he tried. He was Hannibal, and Will was Will, and it wasn’t as if Hannibal would be interested in—oh dear god, he was interested in Hannibal. He was interested in Hannibal _like that_. He didn’t know why he had to have the epiphany now, of all moments, sitting in Hannibal’s kitchen on New Year’s Eve, but so it was. It hit him like a semi going seventy-five on a slick winter highway. First Alana, and now Hannibal fucking Lecter. Was life ever going to give him a fucking break?

Will stood up abruptly, left the blanket in the armchair, and put the plate in the sink.

“Don’t you need to go back out?” he said roughly, without looking at Hannibal. “The party has been without its host for more than half an hour, and you’re spending it taking care of me. Alana’s probably wondering where you are.” He clenched his teeth together, surprised that he’d vocalized the last part, but it was too late. It was already out in the open.

There was a beat of silence. He still wasn’t looking at Hannibal when the older man said, a little slower than usual as if considering something for the first time, “Alana will be fine without me. She is fully capable of handling herself without need of my supervision.”

Anger surged through Will’s veins. “Oh, and I’m not?”

“Will, I found you standing outside in the snow without a coat on.”

He whirled to face Hannibal. “So what, you thought you’d come and babysit me, make sure I’m not left alone? I’m a grown-ass adult, Hannibal, I don’t need your supervision!”

“Would you rather I leave?”

The words were a slap to the face, yet there was no malice in Hannibal’s voice, countenance, or body language, nor was his tone mocking. Will ground his teeth together. Then he took a deep breath, swallowed his bitterness, and shook his head _no_.

“I don’t doubt your ability to handle yourself,” Hannibal said after a long pause. “I came looking for you because I couldn’t find you in the crowd. I was going to introduce you to some old friends of mine. Mrs. Komedo in particular was very insistent.”

Will frowned.

“But it became apparent you weren’t there, and I had thought maybe it had gotten too much and you’d gone home, and then I saw you outside.” Hannibal spread his hands, palms up, in front of him. “And here we are.”

Will nodded stiffly and repeated, “Here we are.” Then he sighed and ran a hand across his beard. “I’m sorry, Hannibal, I didn’t mean to snap at you like that.”

Hannibal pursued his lips in his equivalent of a shrug. “You are tired, overworked, and overstimulated. Any reasonable person put under such pressures would react similarly.”

“Still. It was rude of me.”

Hannibal cocked his head but didn’t comment. Will leaned against the counter next to him.

“The party was too much for me,” he found himself admitting. “Too many people, too much noise, too...too many falsities and lies. Everyone’s pretending to have a good time and enjoy one another’s company, but they need alcohol to actually enjoy it. Otherwise they’re bored, unamused, or uninterested. It’s draining.”

Hannibal hummed. “Your empathy makes it near impossible not to see the lies people tell themselves and each other. It’s hard to turn that off.”

Will snorted. “You could say that.”

“You don’t have to drain yourself, Will. You could’ve turned down the invitation.”

Will sighed heavily. “Yeah, well. Felt bad about turning down all your previous ones.”

Hannibal turned himself toward Will, hip resting against the counter. Will was suddenly hyper-aware of how close they were, how their legs were less than an inch from brushing, and how close Hannibal’s hand was on the counter next to his.

Hannibal’s eyes sought Will’s, and this time, Will made eye contact without hesitation or regret. Their dark amber-brown depths, alive and intriguing without being an open book, were worth breaking his rule. “There is nothing to feel bad about. You are not obligated to follow anybody else’s whims.”

Part of Will wondered if they were still talking about dinner invitations, but being in such close proximity to Hannibal wasn’t conducive to following any deep train of thought. Maybe that’s why his next words were so frank and truthful, as if they had a will separate from his own:

“It’s not somebody else’s whims I’m worried about. It’s my own.”

“There’s no need to feel ashamed of your desires, Will.”

They were definitely _not_ talking about dinner invitations anymore.

In the other room, the volume rose. People laughed and cheered. Multiple voices swelled in a chorus of, “ _...15!...14!...13!..._ ”

“It sounds like the ball’s about to drop,” Will said, unable to tear his eyes away from Hannibal’s.

_...10!..._

“Yes.”

_...9!..._

“Do you…” Will swallowed. “Are you not going to join them?”

_...6!...5!..._

Hannibal reached up and brushed one of Will’s curls behind his ear, thumb lingering on his cheekbone. _...3!..._ “I’d rather be here,” he said simply.

Then Hannibal’s lips touched his, and Will was adrift in a raging ocean again, this time with Hannibal as his anchor.


	3. III

The kiss started out soft, far gentler than Will had imagined it could be. For a moment, he stood frozen, a deer in the headlights, too shocked to move. Then he was kissing back, one hand pressed against the counter for balance. Hannibal’s lips were surprisingly soft and full. He cupped Will’s face, hand callused but warm, trailing his thumb along Will’s cheekbone. The light touch sent shivers down Will’s spine.

Hannibal pulled back for just a moment, then leaned in and kissed him again with more force this time, enough that Will reached up and gripped the nape of Hannibal’s neck to keep from stumbling backwards. Hannibal leaned into the counter, holding Will’s head with both hands, and Will followed. He parted his lips, and Hannibal let out a small sound that went straight to Will’s groin.

Hannibal kept one hand in Will’s hair, tracing Will’s jaw and down his neck with the other. Molten pleasure pooled in Will’s stomach. He was sure Hannibal could feel the rapid pulse in his neck, if not hear how loud his heart was beating. Hannibal smelled divine, a lingering cologne with notes of sandalwood and sage (though Will was no expert), and his lips tasted like champagne. Will tugged on his neck to pull him closer. Hannibal followed, pressing a leg between his. Will let out an involuntary groan. Hannibal’s fingers slipped down to the top button of Will’s shirt, while his other hand tightened in his hair—

“Hannibal? Are you in there?”

Will and Hannibal broke apart as Alana stopped abruptly at the edge of the kitchen. Her mouth fell open, but Hannibal didn’t step away, keeping Will trapped against the counter even as he turned to face Alana. Will avoided eye contact with either of them.

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” Alana said, a flush spreading across her cheeks. “I didn’t realize— I was just— you’d disappeared, and I figured you’d be in here. I came to say goodbye.” She held up her car keys. “It looks like it’s going to continue snowing well into the morning, so I should head home before the roads worsen.”

“No apologies necessary. You didn’t know,” Hannibal said smoothly, as if he hadn’t just been caught leaning Will up against his pristine kitchen counter. “It was good to see you, Alana. Thank you for coming. I hope you have a safe trip home.”

Will jerked his head in Alana’s direction, his hands shoved in his pockets, and muttered, “Safe travels.” He was sure his cheeks were as flushed as Alana’s, maybe even more so after being caught kissing his unofficial psychiatrist on New Year’s Eve like a bad Hallmark movie, except way gayer than anything they’d air on their channel.

Alana nodded, her eyes flitting back and forth between the two men. A faint smile pulled at the edges of her lips as she lifted her car keys in a mock toast.

“Well, uh, have a good night. Happy New Year.”

The men echoed her Happy New Year, Will still resolutely avoiding eye contact. Alana’s exit was punctuated by the _tap tap tap tap_ of her high heels against the hardwood floor. Somewhere within the house, where the party was still going on, there was a peal of rambunctious laughter.

Will worried his lip between his teeth, glancing at Hannibal, who was still so close that he could feel the body heat radiating off of him. Hannibal seemed content to stay where they were, but now that they were no longer kissing, Will’s self-consciousness and anxiety had come back in full force.

“I, uh, should probably get going, too.” Will immediately wanted to kick himself, but it was too late to take the words away.

Hannibal tipped his head in the equivalent of a shrug. “There’s no need. If you’re worried about getting home in this weather, I can prepare a guest room for you.”

The thought sent heat straight to Will’s groin. He shook his head quickly, as much to dislodge the vivid inappropriate images that had settled there as to turn down the offer.

“No, no, that won’t be necessary. I’ve driven in the snow before.”

Hannibal licked his lips, and Will tried not to visibly shiver at the sight. “You live an hour and a half from here, Will. That leaves plenty of time for the roads to worsen.” He locked eyes with Will before he could look away. “I would feel safer if you stayed.”

“Why didn’t you offer that to Alana?”

The corner of Hannibal’s mouth twitched. “Alana didn’t drink three glasses of champagne on a mostly empty stomach. I don’t condone drinking and driving.” _You’re the one I kissed_ went unspoken. Hannibal stepped neatly away from Will and picked the blanket off the armchair, folding it over his arm like a butler.

“I didn’t bring clothes,” Will said, still standing where Hannibal had pressed him up against the counter.

“I’m sure I can find something to fit you.”

“What about my dogs?”

Hannibal paused. “I can text Alana to ask her to check on them for you.”

Will flushed, thinking about what conclusions Alana would likely jump to upon receiving such a text. Somehow it was worse if Hannibal was the one to reach out to her. “Uh, I’ll text her about it, I guess.”

Hannibal nodded once and then walked out of the kitchen, as if that solved everything. It took Will only a moment to decide to follow him. The only other option he could see was to stand dumbly in the middle of Hannibal’s kitchen with an oncoming headache and half a hard-on, and no part of that sounded appealing.

In spite of himself, Will felt his heart rate raise slightly as Hannibal led him upstairs. Determined not to think about _Hannibal_ and _bed_ in the same sentence, Will took in his surroundings, instead. The second floor was just as opulent as the first, with a similar dark-toned aesthetic and classical art and statues everywhere. The sheer wealth was more than a little intimidating when Will thought of his comparatively small house in the middle of nowhere Wolf Trap, Virginia, full of dogs, dog hair, and what could only be described as a homely fisherman aesthetic.

Yet he was the one staying the night, not the sophisticated and more put together Alana, Will reminded himself. He was the one that Hannibal had kissed, although why this was the case was still a mystery to him. Will’s stomach clenched. What if Hannibal had only kissed him because there was no one more desirable around and he didn’t want to miss out on having a New Year’s Eve kiss?

He shoved the thought away as soon as it appeared. As surprising as Hannibal’s move had been, Will could rule out something as base and crude as having kissed him only because Hannibal had wanted to fulfill a silly cultural superstition. Hannibal was more purposeful and polite than that.

Will was so busy stewing in his thoughts that he almost bumped into Hannibal when the older man stopped walking. If Hannibal noticed, he didn’t comment. Instead, he opened the door to a guest bedroom that looked big enough to be a master bedroom if it had been in a different house, complete with its own bathroom.

“You can stay in here,” Hannibal said, ushering him in. “I haven’t had a guest in a while, so if it is missing anything, just let me know. There should be toiletries in the bathroom, and I can get you some clothes for the night, as well as the morning, if you need.”

“Thank you.”

“It’s my pleasure.”

Will roamed the room, taking everything in. It had a queen-sized bed covered in a huge dark blue duvet, an antique-looking dresser, two bedside tables with a lamp on each, and yet more classical paintings. There were at least two paintings that Will vaguely recognized as being Japanese in origin: one was a crashing wave, and the other was of a crouching tiger. There was also what might’ve been a Monet, with its signature brush strokes and water lilies under a bridge, and some Baroque paintings.

Hannibal must’ve caught the way Will lingered on one of them in particular, because he stopped a few feet away from him and said,

“ _Prometheus Bound_ , one of Rubens’ best works. It depicts the eternal torment of Prometheus from the Greek tragedy of the same name. In it, Prometheus is portrayed as humanity’s benefactor, bringing us fire and the civilizing arts, for which he is punished by Zeus.”

“Don’t you think it’s a little... _gory_ , for a guest room?” Will said dryly, eyeing the sharp talon that pierced Prometheus’s eye as the eagle feasted on his liver.

“I think it reminds us of our mortality.” Hannibal sounded a little amused. Sure enough, when Will glanced at him, the corners of his lips had twitched up into a faint smile. “The level of detail that Rubens paid merely serves to strengthen the reminder of what price is paid for humanity’s civilization.”

Will huffed but didn’t respond.

After a few moments, Hannibal turned away and went to the door. “Wait here. I’ll get you some clothes.”

Will sat on the edge of the bed to wait. Only then did he remember his dogs. Trying not to flush at the thought of what Alana would think, he took out his phone and sent her a quick text: _Hey, Alana, I know it’s last minute, but would you be willing to check on my dogs?_

He thought about adding more, but no matter how he imagined it, there were too many insinuations attached. _In the morning_ highlighted the fact that he wasn’t going to be staying the night at his own house, and the only other place he would be staying at was Hannibal’s, with the man Alana had just found him kissing passionately. _Tonight_ was too much of a burden for her — he didn’t want to ask her to drive over an hour in the snow in the dark, which was exactly what he was avoiding doing — and _tomorrow_ once again highlighted his conspicuous absence from his own home. So he left it simple and hoped she wouldn’t ask any questions.

Bless Alana, she sent a text back almost immediately: _Yes, key under the brick, right? And dw, not texting & driving — got home safely. _

_Yes, thank you_ , he typed, and then, after a long awkward deliberation, added, _stay safe_ and sent it before he could overthink it.

Hannibal appeared in the doorway just as Will was setting his phone down to charge on one of the bedside tables, holding a neat stack of clothes that looked suspiciously tall.

“I found a sweater and some night pants for you, and some clothes for tomorrow, as well. Let me know if anything doesn’t fit or you need something else.”

The situation was so surreal that Will didn’t know what to do other than thank him and take the clothes. It was strange how comfortable their interactions still felt, even after making out like teenagers and then acting as if it hadn’t happened, and to be staying the night at Hannibal’s on top of it — well, that wasn’t something Will could’ve predicted, even in his wildest dreams.

At the thought of dreams, Will felt suddenly uncomfortable. He had discussed his nightmares and hallucinations with Hannibal before, but he’d never fully described what happened when he had terrible dreams. They were almost always accompanied by violent night sweats, the kind that soaked completely through his clothes and sheets and left him shivering in his own nervous sweat. He didn’t want to soak Hannibal’s clothes or sheets, which were probably more expensive than half his wardrobe put together, but he didn’t know how to bring it up.

For better or for worse, Hannibal made the decision for him by moving back to the door and standing there with his hand resting on the frame. “If you need anything, my room is down the hall and to the right. Just knock.” A faint smile appeared at the edges of his lips and the corners of his eyes. “Good night, Will.”

Will did his best to return the smile, though he was afraid he might have looked more pained than happy or grateful. “Good night, Hannibal.”

The door clicked closed, and then Will was alone.


	4. IV

Will huffed as he sorted through the clothes that Hannibal had handed him. He hadn’t mentioned that he was going to give Will multiple pairs of sleep clothes and multiple pairs of clothes for the morning. One of each was more than enough; it wasn’t as if Will had never fallen asleep in his day clothes before.

He stripped his clothes off and, after a little contemplation, picked a lighter-weight sweater and a thin but soft pair of sleep pants from the pile to wear. Will set the rest of the pile on the armchair in the corner, dressed, and climbed into bed. The sheets were even softer than he had imagined they would be; he didn’t even want to _think_ about how expensive they must be. The mattress, too, was far comfier than what Will had at home. He didn’t know how many years he’d had the same mattress on his bed frame, but considering how badly he had been sweating at night lately, he wondered if he should rethink that.

Will turned off the light and tried to get comfortable, but despite his exhaustion and the alcohol still running in his veins, his headache had worsened to the point where it felt as if hot knives were being jabbed into his temple. Sighing in defeat, Will flicked on the light and rummaged in his discarded suit jacket for his bottle of aspirin. He almost took the pills dry before he remembered that drinking water might stave off a hangover that would make his current headache feel even worse. He went into the bathroom without turning on the vanity light, swallowed the pills with a few mouthfuls of water, and then laid back down.

The night seemed to stretch on for an eternity in the dark. Will tossed and turned, rubbing at his temples in a futile attempt to ease the pain building up there. Other than the rustling of his sheets every time he moved, the house was eerily silent. Unlike Will’s old house in Wolf Trap, Hannibal’s house didn’t creak or settle in the night. It was as if the house itself were holding its breath — what for, Will couldn’t guess. The silence didn’t help him sleep. He was used to the snoring and soft breathing of his dogs, the nocturnal calls and rustling of creatures in the nearby woods, and the wind whistling in his attic and down his chimney.

Will flopped onto his back with a sigh and stared at the darkened ceiling. It was impossible to tell what time it was. There was no digital clock on either of the bedside tables, and he didn’t want to blind himself with the light from his cell phone; the blue light would only make it harder for him to fall asleep. The only light in the room came from around and under the thickly curtained windows designed to keep the Baltimore streetlights at bay.

His eyes eventually fluttered shut, and to his immense relief, his body began to relax into the soft mattress. Exhaustion swept over his mind like a wave. Maybe he could finally sleep.

And then something creaked down the hall.

Will froze, wide awake. He sat up part of the way, leaning on his elbows. The sound was reminiscent of Alana’s high heels clicking on Hannibal’s hardwood floor as she had left them earlier that evening, but there was something off about it. It was an all-too familiar sound, one that was confirmed when his bedroom door nudged open. Beyond the door, in the shadows of the hallway, stood an enormous black stag. The stag snuffled and ducked its head to enter the room, so as not to catch its impressive rack of antlers on the top of the doorway. In the dark, it was hard to tell, but Will knew that instead of fur, it was covered in midnight black feathers.

Perhaps a normal person would run away, or scream, or god knew what else upon such a vision. But Will, for better or for worse (definitely worse), had become familiar with the stag’s presence. It was never outwardly harmful. At most, it was a neutral presence. Sometimes, it even had a strangely comforting aspect to it.

But the visions that accompanied it? Those could be harmful.

Despite his better judgment, Will stretched out his hand to touch the stag’s snout. The stag’s eyes glistened in the low light of the room as it bent its head and blew hot air on Will’s outstretched hand.

Before he could touch it, however, he blinked and the stag was gone. Will was alone again. He leaned back into the mattress, ready to try to go back to sleep, but froze in horror. He was laying in something hot and wet.

Will gasped and struggled to sit up as sticky, black liquid rose up and lapped over the mattress, as though he were on a sinking lifeboat in the middle of a raging sea. No, no, no, no, _no_ , he did _not_ want to drown, especially not in _this_ , this viscous liquid that smelled too much like the iron found in blood and left its tainting influence behind on his skin. But it was too late — the liquid rose and rose, engulfing him in its sticky heat, and Will screamed bloody murder and bolted upright in bed.

It took him a few moments of gasping desperately for air before he realized that he was no longer drowning in blood. There was no blood, and there was no feathered stag; all there was was himself, sitting in a pool of his own sweat.

He had been dreaming (or hallucinating) again. So much for not sweating profusely all over Hannibal’s expensive sheets and clothes.

Will threw the covers back and peeled the soaking sweater off his body, wincing when the cool air hit his sweaty skin. He did the same with his pants, leaving him shivering violently in his boxers, and held one sweaty article of clothing in each hand, unsure of what to do with them. If he had been at home, he would have simply thrown them on the floor and waited until the morning to put them in the laundry basket, but that would clearly not do here.

After a moment’s contemplation, Will stood up and padded tiredly into the bathroom, draping the sweaty clothes over the shower rod. Then he went to the sink and splashed water on his face, to wash the sweat off, but also to try to cool the fever that pressed at his temples along with his headache. The last thing he wanted was to be sick at Hannibal’s. It looked as if that hope might be dashed right along with his sweaty bed sheets.

The cool water against his face didn’t seem to do anything, but it had been worth a try, he supposed. As he rubbed his face dry with a towel, Will glanced up in the mirror and froze, unable to believe his eyes.

_There was a soulmark on his chest._

Will moved closer to the mirror and flicked on the light, horrified but also intrigued in spite of himself. The soulmark rested directly above where his heart beat sporadically in his chest. It looked a lot like a fresh tattoo, shiny and rich in color, although it had appeared on his skin without him being stabbed with a needle full of ink, of course.

Will’s reservations aside, it was beautiful. The soulmark was an anatomical heart, painted in vivid shades of red and complete with detailed veins and arteries, collagen, and muscular definition. Digging into the sides of the heart, reminiscent of ribs, or maybe tree branches or choking vines, were what looked like a stag’s antlers. Bunches of flowers sprouted from the major veins and arteries at the top of the heart in a grotesque bouquet.

Will traced the soulmark with his fingers. So _Hannibal Lecter_ was his soulmate. His stomach twisted and sank even as he tried to be hopeful. A part of Will had always assumed that he didn’t have a soulmate. Now the part of him that had always feared that if he had a soulmate it would be unrequited reared its ugly head. Unrequited soulmates were rare, but they did happen — two people would kiss, and only one of them would develop a soulmark. Will had been more relieved than he had wanted to admit when he hadn’t developed a soulmark after kissing Alana and she rejected him. It would be just his luck to be rejected by his soulmate.

He tried to ignore the voice in his head that whispered that there was still a chance he could be rejected by this one. After all, his soulmate was apparently Dr. Hannibal fucking Lecter, former surgeon, renowned psychiatrist, refined urban socialite, and filthy stinking rich. He was _rolling_ in wealth. And who was Will? Just an mentally unstable FBI professor and criminal profiler, living alone in the middle of nowhere with seven dogs, antisocial and unrefined, happy to spend his days fishing and fixing boat motors with no other humans to keep him company, and did he mention currently struggling with hallucinations and the occasional vivid murder fantasy? The odds of Hannibal returning Will’s soulmate feelings were so scarce that Will hadn’t even bothered to consider Hannibal as a love interest until his own feelings were staring him in the face.

A knock on the door frame to his room made Will freeze again, but it was Hannibal’s voice that made him panic.

“Will? Are you okay?”

Oh _SHIT_.

Before Will could attempt to cover himself or the soulmark on his chest, mocking him from where it sat upon his heart, Hannibal entered the guest bedroom slowly and peeked into the lighted bathroom, his forehead creased in concern. Will could do nothing except turn to face him, soulmark clearly visible, and brace himself for rejection.

Hannibal’s mouth parted slightly, eyes roaming over Will’s chest, but within seconds, his eyes were on Will’s.

“I heard you screaming, so I came to check up on you. Nightmares again?”

Will swallowed. “Yes.”

Hannibal’s eyes drifted back to Will’s chest. “Is that...?”

Will couldn’t meet Hannibal’s eyes or even look him in the face. But what else could he do but be truthful? It was better to get the rejection over with as quickly as possible than to draw out the pain unnecessarily, right? “A soulmark, yeah. I, uh. It just appeared.”

Hannibal stepped forward. Will tensed but didn’t move away. Hannibal stopped only a foot away from Will and reached out slowly, and when Will stayed put, he touched Will’s chest lightly and traced a finger across the heart soulmark. Will couldn’t help himself; he shivered and leaned into the touch.

“After I kissed you.” Hannibal’s voice was so low and quiet that if Will hadn’t been straining his ears, he could have easily convinced himself that he had imagined it.

Will swallowed. “Yes.”

Hannibal pulled his fingers away, but Will’s disappointment at the loss of contact was short-lived. His breath hitched and got lost somewhere in his throat as Hannibal pulled off his own sweater to reveal that he had the same soulmark, resting directly over his heart.

“It appeared this evening, after we kissed.” Hannibal dropped the sweater to the ground and touched Will’s face, his touch so light that Will almost cried from the gentleness. “May I kiss you again?”

_“Yes.”_

Then they were kissing, and Will was lost in a sea of emotion, clinging to Hannibal as if his life depended on it.

Maybe it did.


	5. V

Their second kiss was just as gentle as the first. Hannibal cupped Will’s face with his hand and brushed their lips together softly, as if Will were the most precious piece of art he had ever encountered and he wanted to express this through nothing but physical touch. Will leaned into him, chasing the ghost of his lips, but Hannibal pulled away. His hand felt dry and cool against Will’s hot skin.

“Are you sick, _mylimasis_?” Hannibal said, moving his hand from Will’s cheek to press the back of it against Will’s forehead. “You’re burning up.”

“Yeah, I, uh.” If it had been possible for Will to become more flushed than he already was, he would have flushed from embarrassment. “I...I had night sweats again.”

Hannibal brushed Will’s sweaty curls away from his face and cupped his forehead with a confident and steady hand. “You’re running a higher fever than is advisable,” Hannibal said, breath ghosting over Will’s ear. After a moment’s pause, he pulled back, as if contemplating something, though his face was hard to read. “Have you had more hallucinations? Sleepwalking? Any loss of time?”

Will opened his mouth to respond but paused halfway. The walls around them were melting like wax dripping down lighted candlesticks. Dark water sloshed around their ankles. He tried to say that yes, as a matter of fact he was having hallucinations _right now_ , but nothing came out. The walls dripped and warped, a Jackson Pollock painting of bent lines and muddled colors. The lights above the bathroom vanity fizzed and crackled like sparklers, and the rising dark water smelled suspiciously of iron.

The water lapped at his waist now. Will stumbled backwards. If he could just climb onto something, he could get above water, but there was only endless sea and swirling, melted colors floating on the surface of the waves.

Distantly, Will heard Hannibal repeating his name. He tried to cry out in response, but the water carried it away. Hannibal’s words reached him garbled, as if Will was underwater, and now Will _was_ underwater, the dark iron-laden waves flooding over him and sweeping him away. He was falling, falling, falling...

Then nothing.

Gradually, Will became aware of his surroundings again, although he wasn’t sure what he could trust to be real. Sometimes there were people talking, or chairs shuffling, and once he could’ve sworn that there was a massive argument taking place nearby, although he couldn’t understand a bit of it. Underneath it all was a persistent beeping. But then Will would hear the rushing of waves in the middle of the ocean, and blood would permeate his mouth and eyes and nostrils, and he knew _that_ part couldn’t be real.

That was what he kept telling himself, anyway. It sure as hell _felt_ real.

Eventually, Will realized that what he was sensing around him hadn’t changed in a while. His limbs felt like lead, and his eyes refused to open no matter how hard he willed them to, but he felt solid. Alive. Not as though he were wavering on the border between reality and insanity — or at least as though he was closer to reality than he had been in months.

Beyond his closed eyelids, the world took shape. The beeping was back, a steady rhythmic presence that was almost reassuring. His head no longer pounded as badly as it had, though his throat was very dry. People’s voices were becoming clearer, too.

It wasn’t until later that Will could tell who the voices belonged to. The most common was Hannibal’s, with its thick European accent and rumbling timbre, soothing in its regularity. Jack’s showed up, too, a loud, boisterous thing that made Will’s head throb. There was the quiet, concerned voice of Alana; the slightly louder but no less concerned voice of Beverly; and occasionally Zeller’s grudging rumble and Jimmy’s higher-pitched response, never heard without the other.

There was one other voice that he didn’t recognize, but it hovered at the edge of his mind as familiar. It was higher-pitched, soft, probably feminine. When Will was finally able to open his eyes, he didn’t know why he hadn’t recognized the voice sooner.

It belonged to Abigail Hobbs.

Abigail sat in an uncomfortable-looking chair to the right of his bedside, reading a book. Her dark hair fell around her pale face, and she had a scarf wrapped delicately around her neck. Something clenched in Will’s chest. He still had nightmares about Abigail’s father, Garret Jacob Hobbs. Hobbs, the Minnesota Shrike, had been a serial killer who murdered, butchered, and ate girls who looked just like his daughter. Hobbs had been about to do the same to Abigail when Will put ten bullets in his chest, but not before Hobbs had sliced open her throat. Hannibal’s presence and previous surgical experience were the only reasons why she was still alive.

Will shifted on the bed and croaked, “Abigail?”

Abigail’s head snapped up. _“Will.”_

She scooted her chair closer and reached for his hand. It was only after she had already placed her hand on his that she looked hesitant, but Will was glad that she didn’t second guess herself and pull away.

Will squinted around him, the light coming through the window nearly blinding him after having his eyes closed for who knew how long. “Where am I?”

Abigail chewed on her lip. Her wide blue eyes looked even wider than usual. “John Hopkins Hospital. Hannibal said you had a mild seizure on New Year’s and were unresponsive, so he drove you here at three o’clock in the morning and told them to give you a brain scan. Said he thought it might be encephalitis, since you had multiple symptoms.” Abigail smiled, but it was a small, worried thing. “Don’t think the doctors took too kindly to being told what to do, but Hannibal was right.”

Will mustered up a wry chuckle. “That sounds about right.”

Abigail looked down at their overlapped hands, fidgeting with the scarf around her neck with her free hand.

Will swallowed. His throat felt like sandpaper. “How long have I been here?”

“Two months.” Abigail glanced up and gave him another awkward, fleeting smile, though this one dissipated as soon as it arrived and was replaced by an expression of worry that she fixed on a distant corner of the room. “We were...well, I’m glad you’re awake.” She brought her gaze back to him. “We were all worried. The doctors were hopeful for a quick recovery, but then there were a few complications.”

Will raised an eyebrow at her, but his whole body ached, including his head, so he lowered his eyebrow as soon as she caught his expression.

“I don’t remember the medical jargon. Hannibal will know.” At the mention of Hannibal, Abigail smiled genuinely, and Will felt a stab of jealousy. Both men felt paternal towards her, and they were her legal guardians now that her parents were dead, but Abigail seemed to prefer Hannibal to himself. _Probably because he saved her life by staunching her blood flow, while you saved her life by killing her dad_ , Will’s inner voice mocked, but he shoved it away as Abigail continued. Her smile grew into something conspiratory as she spoke: “Hannibal has been really worried about you. I’ve never seen him so concerned.”

Will grunted. Abigail glanced down at her book and closed it with a snap, pulling her hand away from Will’s. But when she looked up again, her eyes were soft.

“You should have seen him when you had a bad reaction to one of the medications. He had a very tense conversation with a couple of the doctors and nurses. I wasn’t there at the time, but Dr. Bloom told me that she’d never heard Hannibal so angry before. He hasn’t really left the hospital except to change clothes and eat.”

“Not even to sleep?”

Abigail shook her head. “Not until you got more stable.”

Will glanced at the empty chair next to Abigail, which was closer to the head of the bed than hers. A leather satchel hung from its back. On a hook on the wall hung Hannibal’s overcoat. Something warm and pleasurable stirred in his chest at the thought.

Hannibal Lecter, the fussy, high-maintenance doctor who was probably born with a silver spoon in his mouth, had slept on an uncomfortable hospital room couch for weeks because he hadn’t wanted to leave Will’s side.

“Is that even allowed?” Will asked as he processed that image.

“Yes. A partner or designated family member is allowed to stay overnight.” Abigail’s smile came back, mischievous this time. “Especially if that person is the patient’s soulmate.”

The warmth in Will’s chest blossomed like the bloody bouquet on his chest. Not only were he and Hannibal soulmates, but it turned out that Hannibal wasn’t ashamed of their bond and had already told people about it. Will felt strangely choked up.

Thankfully, Abigail didn’t seem to expect a response. Instead, she placed her hand on Will’s again and repeated, “I’m glad you’re awake.” Then she looked away and said so quietly that he almost missed it, “I didn’t want to lose a second father.”

Tears stung at the corners of his eyes. _A second father_. Abigail thought of him as her father. With difficulty, Will turned his hand under hers and threaded their fingers together. “I’m right here,” he said fiercely. “Hannibal and I are right here.”

Abigail’s eyes were wet. “Good.”

They lapsed into silence. Will’s throat was incredibly scratchy, so eventually, he cleared it and said, “Can I have some water?”

“Oh, yeah, of course.” Abigail let go of his hand and stood up, setting her book down where she had been sitting. “I’m sorry, I didn’t think of that.”

It was only when she moved away to fill up a cup of water for him did Will have a moment to process that she’d said that he had been unconscious for _two months_. As soon as Abigail returned, he blurted out the only thing on his mind:

“What happened to my dogs?”

Abigail stopped at the edge of his bed. “Dr. Bloom is taking care of them. She’s teaching your classes this semester, too.”

Will felt a weak stab of guilt that he had completely forgotten that he had classes to teach, but it was eclipsed by immense relief that his dogs were okay and in good hands. The dogs liked Alana. She was generous and doting with them. But he could only imagine how upset they had been when he had left for Hannibal’s party and never came back.

As if she could read his mind, Abigail added, “The dogs miss you. I overheard Dr. Bloom tell Hannibal that Winston keeps running away and showing up on your doorstep.”

His heart clenched. Poor, sweet, protective Winston. Abigail didn’t let him dwell, however; she held out the cup of water expectantly and raised her eyebrow at him.

Will was too weak to lift his head or arm, so Abigail put the cup to his lips. He had never tasted something so delicious in his entire life. The water soothed his throat and his parched mouth, and he had to hold back from gulping down the whole thing at once, lest he make himself sick. When the cup was empty, Will closed his eyes. A wave of exhaustion crashed over him. He should thank Abigail, or tell her that he was sleepy, or _something_ , but his body had other plans, sinking him back into the abyss.

Then nothing.


	6. VI

When Will resurfaced next, it was to the booming voice of his boss, Jack Crawford. There was no way in hell he was going to deal with Jack right now, so he kept his eyes closed and pretended to be asleep. It was easy to do. His eyelids felt as heavy as lead and so did his limbs, as if he hadn’t spent the last two-plus months unconscious.

“...need him out there,” Jack was saying. He was using his _I don’t expect to be told no_ voice, and based on how loud he was getting, he was currently being told _no_. “We aren’t going to catch this guy without him in the saddle.”

“You aren’t going to catch him with Will sick, either, Jack.” Warmth washed over Will at the accented cadence of Hannibal’s voice. “He isn’t ready to be back in the field, and he won’t be useful to you if you send him out there before he’s ready.”

“The Ripper doesn’t care if we’re ready,” Jack retorted. “He’s going to strike again soon, and then he’ll disappear, and we’ll be shit out of luck for months, possibly years.”

“Are you that certain that these new murders are the Ripper’s doing?”

“Certain enough that I need Will’s eyes to confirm it. I’ve thought I had the Ripper before, only for it to be a different killer or a copycat. I can’t make that mistake again.”

There was a long pause. “You were convinced that the Ripper struck again several months ago, and yet it was the work of a clumsy organ donor.”

“ _Some_ of the bodies were the work of a clumsy organ donor,” Jack corrected. “Others were likely the Ripper’s.” He lowered his voice. “I can’t let him slip through my fingers again. If these bodies are his doing, _I need to know_.” Jack’s voice was rising again, agitation clear. “He’s messing with me, biding his time. And he picked damn well, because my best profiler is laying here _unconscious!”_

“Unconscious or no, you need to rest.” Hannibal’s voice was getting quieter; he must be leading Jack to the door. “Worrying is not going to help you catch your killer. Your team is working on the case as we speak, and Will needs time to heal. In the meantime” — here his voice softened around the edges — “spend some time with Bella. She needs you right now just as much as you need her.”

Will could imagine the exhaustion that must have washed over Jack’s face as he took in and accepted the advice, because his next words were, “You’re right.” A pause. “Keep an eye on Will for me, won’t you?”

“I will do my utmost best to take care of him,” Hannibal replied, and his tone was so sincere that it made Will’s chest ache.

“I’m sure you will. Goodbye, Doctor.”

The door closed behind him. After a few long moments, Will heard the chair to the right of his bed creak as Hannibal sat down, and then he felt Hannibal’s warm, dry hand settle over his cold one.

“Good afternoon, Will,” Hannibal murmured.

Will’s eyelids fluttered as he turned his head in Hannibal’s direction, but he didn’t open them. “How’d you know I was awake?” His voice rasped painfully in his throat, and he swallowed down the urge to cough.

Hannibal brushed his thumb over Will’s knuckles. “I didn’t. But I’m very glad you are.” He lifted Will’s hand to his lips and then gently set his hand back down on the bed.

“Can I have some water?”

The chair shifted as Hannibal stood up and moved away. Will kept his eyes closed for as long as he could, but when Hannibal returned, he opened his eyes so that he could see the cup and drink without spilling it all over himself. The cool liquid was incredibly soothing, a balm for his dry mouth and throat. When he finished, Hannibal set the cup down on the bedside table and resumed holding his hand, thumb gently tracing circles across his skin. Will sighed and closed his eyes again.

“Thank you.”

“Of course. How are you feeling?”

“Like I got run over by a steamroller.”

There was a huff of breath from Hannibal reminiscent of a chuckle, but it was short-lived, like a cloud skidding over the face of the sun. “You were very sick. I...” Hannibal’s thumb stilled on the back of Will’s hand for a fraction of a second, so brief that Will might have imagined it. “I was worried you might not recover.”

“What was wrong with me?”

“You had anti-NMDA receptor encephalitis.”

Will cracked open his eyes and squinted at Hannibal. “Inflammation of the brain?”

“Yes. In your case, it was triggered by a rare autoimmune disorder. It was the cause of your fever, headaches, and psychosis, among other things.” Hannibal squeezed Will’s hand. “You had a mild seizure on New Year’s, which is why you’re here. You’ll likely continue to have symptoms as you recover, but they will recede with time.”

Will frowned. “Have I been unconscious this whole time?”

“No. You have been conscious off and on, but nonverbal and agitated. You had another mild seizure, and then a bad allergic reaction to one of the immune suppressors.” If Will hadn’t been watching Hannibal’s face, he would’ve missed the brief flash of anger in his eyes. Again, it was so brief that he might have imagined it, except for Abigail’s previous confirmation of his worry and anger over the unexpected medical issues. As if Hannibal could read Will’s mind, he said, “Abigail said you were briefly conscious and verbal when she was here, but that was a couple of weeks ago.”

 _“Weeks?”_ Will closed his eyes. “God. What month is it?”

“March.”

Christ, he had been in the hospital for almost three months now. That didn’t even seem _possible_. He knew he was probably expected to give some kind of response to that, but the only thing that made it to his lips was, “I miss my dogs.”

“I’m sure they miss you, too.”

Comfortable silence followed. Will squeezed his eyes shut tighter and drifted in and out of consciousness. The next time he opened them, the hospital room was getting dark, shadows stretching across the linoleum floor. Hannibal was dozing at his side, hand still placed over his. When Will coughed and shifted, Hannibal opened his eyes and gave him a soft smile. Will didn’t return it. There was something niggling at the back of his mind:

“There’ve been new Ripper murders?”

“Jack thinks so.”

“When?”

“Several weeks ago.”

Will grunted in response. No wonder Jack had been getting antsy. He thought to ask for more details, but the shadows creeping across the floor were making strange, grisly shapes and he wasn’t in the mood to feed his nightmares or lingering psychosis, so he left it at that. Hannibal seemed content to leave it at that, too. Unfortunately for Will, when he drifted off again, his nightmares were drenched in dark blood, mangled corpses, and the slippery feel of a knife in his hand as he cut out someone’s heart.

* * *

The recovery process was excruciatingly slow. A couple weeks passed before Will could stay awake for more than a few minutes at a time. More weeks still before he could eat solid food instead of being fed through an IV, and more weeks beyond that before he could stand up and manage a lap around his hospital room on shaky legs.

Through it all, Hannibal was at his side. Of course, Hannibal had his psychiatric practice to attend to, and now that Will was improving, Hannibal slept in his own bed instead of on the lumpy couch at the hospital. But he visited once a day. Sometimes, he brought Will books to read or fishing lures to tie. More often than not, he brought food: the fanciest chicken soup Will had ever eaten, a breakfast scramble reminiscent of the first meal Hannibal had ever served him, miso soup, borsch, beef stroganoff, dumplings, Polish sausage, rye bread pudding, and many more dishes whose names Will had immediately forgotten.

Hannibal also brought news, something that Will appreciated more than he could say. It meant that he got regular updates on his dogs — they were doing well with Alana and her dog, Applesauce, although Winston kept running away to Will’s house in Wolf Trap — and that he was briefed on the details of the ongoing murder cases without having to deal with a frustrated and overworked Jack.

Especially since the Ripper had struck a third time, as was custom, and hadn’t been heard from since, as was custom.

Needless to say, Jack was fuming.

Characteristic of the Chesapeake Ripper, there was no easily identifiable evidence left at the scenes: no fingerprints, no hair, no bits of snagged clothing or blood other than the victims’. The bodies were missing organs and had been mutilated or dismembered while the victims were still alive. The presentation of the bodies was also characteristically theatrical: the first was an old Catholic priest, found by his unlucky congregation on Sunday morning. He was posed in front of the altar, kneeling, his hands held out in supplication, holding his own heart, and missing his liver and kidneys. The second was a teenage boy found in a vineyard, torn limb from limb and decapitated, with his heart missing. The third and final body was a young woman with a flower crown upon her head, her chest cavity emptied to make room for a collection of white flowers. Everything that would’ve been in her chest cavity, most notably the heart and lungs, was taken.

Hannibal and Alana both insisted that Will avoid looking at the crime scene photos until he was well again, so he couldn’t say for sure whether they were the Ripper’s doing. What he found unusual was how far apart the murders were. The last three times the Ripper had struck, all three bodies had dropped within nine days. This time, the total length between kills was forty-five days. If it truly was the Ripper’s work, it didn’t make sense.

Unfortunately, it wouldn’t make sense until Will was back at work and able to study the crime scene photos. In a twisted way, the longer he was stuck in the hospital, the more he missed his job and all the struggles that came with it. By the time May rolled around, he was going near stir-crazy. He was well enough to sit up in bed during the day and hobble around the hospital with a walker, but not well enough to be released. He was so tired of staring at the same four damn walls that when he heard that Beverly Katz was coming to visit, he actually looked forward to it. Granted, Beverly was the nearest he had to a true friend besides Hannibal. But looking forward to a situation where he would have to be sociable...well, he couldn’t remember the last time that had happened.

When Beverly arrived, she stopped outside Will’s room and rapped on the doorway, giving him a genuine smile when he looked up and saw her. A member of the FBI’s forensics team, Beverly specialized in fiber analysis, as well as avoiding Jack’s wrath and translating the spats between fellow team members Brian Zeller and Jimmy Price into fluent English. What Will appreciated the most about her was that she didn’t treat him like a fragile little teacup or a petulant child. Her interactions with him gave him a sense of normalcy, no matter how delusional that sense might be.

Beverly leaned against the door frame. “Hey, Graham. Looking good. Or I should say, looking better, because last time I was here, you looked like _death_.”

The corners of Will’s mouth twitched up into a faint smile despite himself. “Good to see you too, Katz.”

Beverly entered and stopped by the edge of his bed, her arms crossed casually over her chest. “I just wanted to drop by and see how you’re doing. Jack and Hannibal are fine and all, but I’d go crazy if they were my only human contact.”

“They’re not my _only_ contact. Abigail and Alana visit sometimes, too.”

Will knew that wasn’t the point of what she’d said, and Beverly knew that he knew, so she merely raised an eyebrow and moved on.

“Brian and Jimmy send their love. They’d come to visit, but Jack has us running around like chickens with our heads cut off.” Beverly bobbed her head at him. “How much you know about the case?”

Will sighed. “Not as much I’d like.” He looked up and almost made eye contact with her, but settled on the bridge of the nose between her eyes, instead. “They won’t let me see the crime scene photos.”

Beverly whistled. “Bummer. The most recent one, with the flowers? It was pretty sick.”

Will huffed, almost a laugh.

A sudden smirk spread across Beverly’s face. “Speaking of flowers...I hear you and Dr. Lecter are _soulmates_.”

Will flushed and immediately looked away. “Uh, yeah.”

“Dude. You got hella lucky. Sure, he’s not everyone’s type, and he’s a little eccentric, but a hot, rich, older doctor?” Beverly grinned at him. “Damn, Graham, you’ve got _game_.”

Will was sure that every visible inch of his skin was red. “Bev—”

“I didn’t come up with that last bit, by the way. Can’t take credit. That was all Jimmy. Ooo, I bet Lecter’s house is ostentatious as hell. Just look at his suits. Are you going to move in together?”

“I...” Will frowned. “Uh, we haven’t really discussed it?” Were they supposed to have discussed things like that? He hadn’t really thought about the logistics of their soulmate bond before, nor could he remember Hannibal bringing it up. Sure, Will had been in the hospital, but he had no idea what regular soulmate protocol was — maybe they should have discussed it already. God, was Hannibal waiting for him to bring it up? Or was Hannibal’s silence on the matter evidence that he didn’t expect either of their lives to change? The thought made Will feel oddly empty.

“Will!” Beverly waved a hand in front of his face, and he jolted backwards, away from her intrusion upon his personal space. “Earth to Will. Did you hear any of what I just said?”

He considered lying for a split second before he shook his head _no_. “I, uh...might’ve missed most of it. Or all of it.”

Beverly snorted, but she didn’t look genuinely annoyed. “I _said_ , it’s okay if you don’t have a response to any of my questions yet or if you don’t want to answer them. You looked like you were going to have another stroke at the thought. Look, soulmate bonds take time to work out, okay? It’s not as if they come with an instruction manual. I’m just being nosy. Besides, there’s no question that Dr. Lecter is absolutely infatuated with you, so there’s no need to worry.”

Will blinked several times in quick succession. “What?”

A disbelieving grin spread over Beverly’s face. “Oh my god. You really haven’t noticed? And here I thought you were supposed to be our best profiler.” She chuckled and patted him on the shoulder, and this time he didn’t flinch away. “Don’t worry about it, dude. He definitely likes you. But if you’re really that concerned, just talk to him about it, yeah?”

“Uh, yeah. Yeah. Um, thanks.”

“Don’t mention it.” Beverly winked at him. “I do, however, reserve the right to ask for details in the near future.” Upon his half-hearted glare, she said, “What? Too soon?”


	7. VII

The light coming in the window from outside was fading but not gone by the time Hannibal arrived at Will’s hospital room. Will had been drifting in and out of consciousness, turning the conversation he had had with Beverly over in his mind, but as soon as Hannibal rapped on the door frame, Will was wide awake. His chest tightened in spite of himself. He hadn’t realized just how attached he was to Hannibal and the idea of having companionship until he had considered the possibility that whatever they had could disappear.

Now that Hannibal was in front of him, that realization was even stronger.

Hannibal Lecter really was a very handsome man. In the fading light, shadows accentuated the sharp lines of his face: his cheekbones, his jawline, the slope of his nose. The crisp lines were continued with his three-piece suit. The tailoring seemed to strengthen his shoulders, narrow his waist, and increase his height. His eyes were near black until he switched on the light above the head of Will’s bed. Then they caught the light and revealed themselves to be dark brown, almost maroon.

Will looked just long enough to take it in, then turned his attention to what Hannibal was carrying. To his surprise, Hannibal held a fancy vase of flowers along with his usual satchel which had Will’s dinner.

“What’s the occasion?”

Hannibal glanced up and caught Will’s eye, the corner of his mouth turned up just enough for his expression to register as amusement. He turned back to the bedside table, set the vase down carefully, and rearranged the flowers for a few moments before saying, “I can’t bring flowers to my beloved just because?”

Will let out a huff through his nose, but his heart was suddenly racing. _Doctor Lecter is absolutely infatuated with you,_ Beverly’s voice echoed in his head, along with Hannibal’s accented voice saying _beloved_. A strange mixture of hope and anxiety curdled in Will’s stomach.

Hannibal didn’t seem to notice anything out of the ordinary with Will; his focus was on the flowers, with which he was still fussing. Will was no expert on flowers, but he recognized a few: purple irises, sprigs of lavender, and what looked like pale purple-pink roses. In fact, the bouquet was composed almost entirely of shades of purple, except for a splash of dark bronze-orange chrysanthemums and orange marigolds, and some greenery to fill it out.

Once the flowers were finally arranged to Hannibal’s liking — though they didn’t look much different than they had initially to Will — Hannibal set about unloading dinner. He placed a tupperware container, thermos, and silverware on the tray table for Will and rolled it over to him. As he settled in the chair by Will’s bed, he said,

“Lasagna rolls stuffed with lobster pomodoro, ricotta, and mushrooms.”

It smelled divine, garlicky and cheesy and rich, but Will didn’t think he would be able to eat it until he got what he was worrying about out of his mind and into the air between them. He fiddled with his silverware, cutting one of the rolls into four pieces, before setting the fork and knife down. Then he focused on Hannibal’s right shoulder so that he wouldn’t have to look him in the eyes.

“Are...are we dating?”

Hannibal blinked. “Do you want us to be?”

Frustration surged up in Will’s chest, and he scowled. “Do _you_?” he shot back.

Hannibal shifted in his seat, unbuttoning his suit jacket and then folding his hands over his crossed knee. “I am happy with whatever you are comfortable with, Will.”

“That doesn’t answer the question.”

Hannibal blinked again, slower this time. Will watched him out of the corner of his eye; the older man was remarkably still. Then, after what felt like an eternity, Hannibal said, “Yes.”

“Me too.” The words were out of Will’s lips almost immediately, chasing the tail end of Hannibal’s _yes_. Will couldn’t remember the last time he had felt so relieved. The feeling was almost eager in its intensity. To hide it, he picked up his fork and knife and shovelled a bite of lobster lasagna into his mouth. It didn’t seem to work, however:

“You were worried I would say no,” Hannibal observed.

Will gave his lasagna rolls a combination of a scowl and a grimace instead of looking up. “Yeah, well. I’m not exactly soulmate material.”

“On the contrary. I find you incredibly fascinating.”

“Most psychiatrists do,” he muttered, half to himself. When Hannibal didn’t respond, Will added grudgingly, “Thanks for dinner, by the way.” More silence. He glanced up. Hannibal’s jaw was tight, and he wasn’t looking at him. Will’s stomach dropped. _Fuck. Fucking idiot._

After another moment, Hannibal spoke, his words measured but firm. “Your appeal is far more than satisfying someone’s professional curiosity of your supposed deficiencies, Will. You aren’t broken, and it is rude to deflect by implying that you are, especially in a way that is insulting to those who care about you. If my interest in you was one of shallow psychiatry, we would not be here.”

Will glanced at him and then away immediately, feeling guilty, frustrated, conflicted, and unsure of how to express it. “Sorry,” he muttered. “I’m not...not used to people sticking around once they grow tired of psychoanalyzing me.”

“Will. Look at me.” Hannibal’s voice was gentler now. Will glanced up and made eye contact with him before he could avoid it. “I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t want to be.”

Warmth pooled in Will’s abdomen, and he felt a little out of breath. The two of them were much closer than he remembered them being. When had they gotten so close? If either of them leaned just a little closer, they could...

But Hannibal leaned back, waved at the food, and said, his manner back to usual, “Now eat your dinner, you don’t want it to get cold.”

Will stabbed a piece of lasagna roll, feeling strangely unsatisfied. This wasn’t really where he had been expecting the conversation to go. He knew he was being childish, but he’d wanted something more from it, even as he had expected less. What _more_ would actually look like, though, he hadn’t the foggiest idea. He stewed over it as he ate. Only after he’d finished the lasagna did he think he had laid his finger on it: He wanted a goddamn clear answer.

“Are we dating, then?” Will asked again, trying not to sound impatient or annoyed.

“We both said we wanted to, so yes, I would assume so,” Hannibal said without even looking at him, fussing with the clasp of the satchel as he put the tupperware away.

“I didn’t want to assume. You know what they say about assuming.” Hannibal looked at him with a faintly puzzled expression, and Will felt a smile creep across his face despite himself. “Assuming makes an ‘ass’ out of ‘u’ and ‘me.’” Hannibal’s expression changed instantly to one of faint disgust, and Will chuckled. “I take it you haven’t heard that one before.”

“I haven’t, no.”

Will shrugged. “It just means it’s generally a good idea to ask instead of assuming.” Hannibal didn’t seem to have response to that, so Will pushed on. “So, are we...boyfriends?” The word felt weird and almost childish on his tongue.

“I prefer ‘partner’ or ‘significant other,’ but yes, essentially.”

They sat with that for several moments before Will screwed up the courage to ask the real question his mind: “So, where do we go from here?”

Hannibal pursed his lips. “Wherever you want. There’s no rush. We have plenty of time.”

Will frowned at the hospital sheets over his legs. A part of him wanted to call Hannibal out for deflecting, especially since he’d had the audacity to call Will out on it earlier, but his use of _we_ , combined with the implication that he wasn’t going anywhere, (mostly) neutralized Will’s annoyance.

“I want to go on dates. Get used to the idea of being soulmates,” Will said slowly, and it wasn’t until he had said it out loud that he realized just how true it was. He felt stripped bare, as if he had said something as blatant as _I want to feel normal._ To shake the feeling, he added, “And I want to see my dogs.”

Hannibal huffed, but the sound was more amused than exasperated. “You will get both of those things as soon as you are discharged.” He reached out and threaded his fingers with Will’s. “It should be pretty soon. You’re getting stronger every day.”

Will moved his hand so that Hannibal could hold it more comfortably. A part of him hoped that Hannibal wouldn’t feel his elevated pulse rabbiting under his skin, but the other part of him secretly hoped that he would. As if Hannibal could read his mind, he lifted Will’s hand to his lips and pressed his mouth against his skin. He trailed his lips slowly down the back of Will’s hand to his wrist, and Will suppressed a shiver.

“I wish you could see yourself how I see you,” Hannibal murmured, lips still on Will’s skin. “You are the most exquisite man I have ever met.”

Will suppressed another shiver. He didn’t think he had ever been so turned on by such a small thing as someone kissing his hand before. Trying to keep his voice steady, he said, “I didn’t know you were into men.”

Hannibal hummed against Will’s wrist, and the gesture went straight to Will’s groin. “I am attracted more to the individual than any one gender, though I appreciate beauty in all its forms.” Hannibal parted his lips slightly, and his teeth grazed Will’s skin for just a moment. Will couldn’t suppress his shiver this time. Hannibal kissed the place that he had grazed and said, “Your beauty is nothing less than a masterpiece, meant to be savored.”

“Mmm,” was all that Will could give in response.

Hannibal turned Will’s hand over and traced the lines of his palm with his thumb. Tingles rose up in the wake of his touch. “I didn’t know you were into men,” he echoed.

“I’m the same way,” Will said, his eyes fluttering shut. “It’s not really about gender. Hardly ever attracted to anyone. It’s sporadic.”

Hannibal seemed satisfied with that. When he was done tracing Will’s palm, he turned his hand back over and kissed each knuckle, breath ghosting over Will’s skin. Will struggled to keep his breathing even. Hannibal’s touches were so _intimate_ , far more intimate than almost anything Will had ever experienced, even compared to the few times that he’d had sex. He could only imagine how intimate sex with Hannibal must be. _Fuck_ , he was hard already. It wasn’t as if he’d had enough energy to masturbate in the hospital, much less the privacy to do so comfortably, and thinking about sex with Hannibal was _not_ helping. Will focused on Hannibal’s touches instead, which, while also a turn-on, were at least grounded and _real_.

Eventually, Hannibal’s lips stilled on the back of Will’s hand but remained there, nothing more than a soft reminder of touch. He breathed in deeply before pulling his mouth away.

“Exquisite,” Hannibal said again, his voice quiet but a little rough around the edges.

They stayed there for a long time. Will kept his eyes closed and memorized the press of their hands together. He was beginning to doze off when Hannibal finally stirred and said quietly, “I need to go home now, _mylimasis_. I have patients to see in the morning.”

“Mmm.” Will opened his eyes as Hannibal extracted his hand from his. The sudden cold air on his palm was an oddly empty feeling.

Hannibal must have turned off the light above Will’s bed at some point, for the hospital room was dark except for the faint streetlights coming through the half-open blinds. Hannibal was cloaked in shadow where he fussed with the flowers in the vase. His handsomeness took on an odd twist in the dark, almost sinister while still being beautiful. Will didn’t know why his first connection was to think of Lucifer, the angel thrown from heaven for challenging God, but it seemed fitting, somehow. Hannibal’s eyes were so dark that they were reminiscent of empty, black sockets. It should have been terrifying, but Will felt nothing but a faint thrill of fear and stronger fascination.

Hannibal turned toward him and smiled faintly. “Good night, Will,” he murmured, bending down and pressing a soft kiss to Will’s forehead after sweeping his curls out of the way.

“Good night,” Will whispered.

He lay awake in the dark long after Hannibal left, turning everything over in his head.


	8. VIII

If any part of Will had been worried that things would feel awkward after his conversation with Hannibal, it was immediately assuaged. In fact, it felt as if nothing at all had changed between them. Will only had to puzzle it over for a moment before the realization hit him: Hannibal’s behavior had barely shifted since their soulmate bond had made itself known. Granted, Will had been unconscious for much of the time after the initial discovery...but that didn’t change much of anything. The more he thought about it, the more he came up with examples of how Hannibal had acted similarly towards him before that fateful night. Hell, Hannibal had brought him homemade breakfast after their very first meeting, which had ended in Will storming out of Jack’s office. It was more than a little odd. But trying to puzzle it out made Will’s head spin, so he settled on accepting it for what it was. He could always analyze it more deeply at a later date.

In the meantime, Will and Hannibal carried on like usual. Hannibal stopped by Will’s hospital room at least once a day, usually after finishing up with his last appointment, and brought him dinner and company. Then he would stay for a couple of hours before kissing Will’s hand and bidding him good night. Their old-fashioned courtship may have felt odd to some people, but Will secretly enjoyed it. In fact, he was so used to their settled routine that when someone knocked on his hospital room door one day around noontime, the only thing that he could think was that it must be Hannibal and something must be wrong. Will looked up immediately, ready for the worst. But it was only Beverly, leaning against the door frame and wearing her usual maroon leather jacket and friendly smirk.

“Katz,” said Will, feeling disappointed and relieved at the same time. “What brings you here?”

Beverly meandered her way over to his hospital bed. “Officially, I’m here with a message from Jack. He wants you on the Ripper case as soon as you’re discharged from the hospital.”

Will grunted and rubbed his hand over his beard, which was getting unruly from lack of any trimming or shaving. Of course Jack did. Then: “Unofficially?”

Beverly smirked. _“Unofficially_...well, how’s it going with you and Dr. Lecter?” She turned and gave the fancy vase of flowers on Will’s bedside table an appraising look. “If the flowers are anything to go by, I’d say pretty good.”

The bouquet had been there for several days, so Will had almost forgotten that it existed. He turned to it now. The flowers looked almost completely pristine. Leave it to Hannibal to buy a bouquet that lasted far longer than a normal one. He probably had enough money to buy flowers that were specially genetically modified to last longer after being cut and put into a vase. Will suppressed a snort at the idea.

“Yeah, uh, things have been good,” said Will. “Great, actually. You were right.”

Beverly grinned triumphantly. “I often am.” She approached the flowers and touched one of them, before asking, “Do you know what any of them are?” It was a slightly abrupt change in topic, considering how nosy she had been about his relationship with Hannibal the last time, but Will wasn’t going to question being given a way out.

“I’m not a horticulturist,” he said wryly, “but I _do_ recognize the roses.”

Beverly snorted goodnaturedly.

“I also recognize the irises, and those are mums.” Will pointed at each in turn. “The sprigs are lavender, and those are marigolds.”

“I thought you said you didn’t know much about flowers?”

Will shrugged. “I have a good memory. Once I’ve learned something, it tends to stick.”

“Well, you’re about to learn much more,” Beverly said, pulling a chair up to Will’s bed so she could talk to him and examine the bouquet at the same time. Will barely had time to raise an eyebrow at her statement before she added, “We think that the flowers left with the last Ripper kill may have hidden meanings that could help us catch this sonuvabitch.” She turned and looked at Will with a critical yet curious eye. “Are you familiar with the Victorian language of flowers?”

* * *

Not too long after, Beverly left him with a book on flower and plant symbolism and a list of everything that had been placed in the third and final Ripper body. Will was torn between feeling grateful that he had something to occupy his time now and a bit resentful that after weeks of having the Ripper’s most recent kills, the forensics team hadn’t looked into it yet. It was difficult to remind himself that the reason why they had left the flower symbolism for him was likely because he would have a better idea of what the Ripper might be trying to say than anyone else. Still, how fucking hard could it really be?

Then Will opened the book and found that it was covered in notes scribbled all throughout the margins, adding to the printed meanings with what the writer — Beverly, maybe? — had found online and in other books. There were also loose sheets of paper stuffed near the back with information on flowers and plants that weren’t in the book.

Ah. Of course the symbolism was more complicated than just one-to-one associations. He really should have been expecting that. Will sighed and got to work.

Will had a tendency, even before his experience with encephalitis, to lose time when he was focused on something. Today was no exception. He hadn’t realized how long he had been at his analysis until he got up to use the bathroom and saw that the sun had moved more than halfway across the sky and changed the direction of all the shadows in the room. As soon as he washed his hands, he sat down with his list and looked it over:

**_Anemone, white,_ ** **anemone coronaria** _— anemones: anticipation, protection, fragility, loss, grief, ill omen, death; white anemones: sincerity; connected to Aphrodite; used for weddings and funerals_

**_Begonia, white,_ ** **semperflorens begonias** _— begonias: gratitude, individuality, peace, connection, caution, warning, dark thoughts; white begonias: spirituality_

**_Christmas rose,_ ** **helleborus niger** _— serenity, tranquility, peace, healing, good fortune, scandal, anxiety; connected to Christianity; poisonous, but used for traditional medicinal purposes_

**_Daffodil, white,_ ** **narcissus poeticus** _— daffodils: fertility, good fortune, wealth, memory, vanity, death, doom, misfortune, selfishness, bad luck; white daffodils: transformation, hope; connected to Narcissus, Persephone; poisonous, but used for traditional medicinal purposes_

**_Hyacinth, white,_ ** **hyacinthus orientalis** _— hyacinths: recreation, love, sincerity, jealousy, sorrow; white hyacinths: loveliness, prayer, hope; connected to Hyacinthus, Apollo; poisonous_

**_Lily of the valley,_ ** **convallaria majalis** _— the return of happiness, rebirth, humility, purity, chastity, delicacy, kindness, serenity, good luck, prosperity, springtime, loss, grief, tears; connected to Maia, Apollo, Ostara, the Virgin Mary, Christ; used for weddings and funerals; poisonous_

**_Lisianthus,_ ** **eustoma grandiflorum** _— gratitude, devotion, lifelong bond; white is used for weddings_

**_Moonflower,_ ** **datura innoxia** _— power, growth in dark times, intuition, freedom, intoxication, deceitful charms; connected to Buddhism, Hinduism, the Oracle at Delphi, indigenous American cultures; poisonous, but used for traditional medicinal and religious purposes_

**_Petunia, white,_ ** **petunia axillaris** _— petunias: comfortableness, your presence suits me, desire, hope, anger, resentment; white petunias: trust, truth, dignity; thought to ward off evil or bad spirits_

**_Tulip, white,_ ** **tulipa gesneriana** _— tulips: deep or perfect love, rebirth, charity; white tulips: forgiveness, apologies, respect, purity, honor, worthiness_

**_Wisteria, white,_ ** **wisteria floribunda** _— longevity, wisdom, love, fertility, beauty, creativity, immortality, grace, honor, patience, endurance, I cling to thee, devotion, good luck; connected to feng shui, Jodo Shinshu Shin Buddhism; white is used for weddings_

**_Yarrow, white,_ ** **achillea millefolium** _— healing, protection, good luck, inspiration, endurance; connected to Achilles, I Ching divination; used for traditional medicinal purposes_

Will slipped the list into the book and put it on the side table. Then he rubbed his temples; he was developing a killer headache. The doctors had said he could continue to experience symptoms of encephalitis as he recovered, but damn if he wasn’t tired of the head pain and random bouts of shivers. Will glanced at the bouquet from Hannibal, its orange and purple blossoms like his own personal burst of sunshine and shadow in an otherwise drab hospital room. Part of him wanted to reopen the flower symbolism book and look at what his flowers might mean. The other, larger part of him was too exhausted to do anything other than lay down and rest his weary mind.

The larger part of him won out, as Will woke up to Hannibal knocking on his hospital room door several hours later. Hannibal came in and followed his usual routine, setting his satchel down and unpacking dinner onto the rolling dinner tray. They ate in relative silence (the meal was pretty simple for Hannibal: filet mignon with sautéed potatoes, mushrooms, and green beans), which Will appreciated, since his head still hurt. Only after they were done eating and the empty containers had been packed away in the satchel did Hannibal glance at the book on the table and ask lightly, “Curious about your bouquet?”

“It’s for the Ripper case.” Will rubbed his eyes and sighed.

“Ah.”

Will waved his hand at the book with the list tucked inside of it like a bookmark. “The flowers are all white.”

It was a non sequitur, but Hannibal picked up on what he meant immediately. He sat down next to Will’s bed and leaned forward, hands clasped. “White is often a symbol of purity and innocence.”

Will snorted. “The Ripper has no pretenses about valuing innocence. Never has.”

“Perhaps instead he values knowledge, even with all the ugliness that comes with it.”

Will frowned. That didn’t sound quite right, either, but he couldn’t place why. Rather than correct him, however, he said, “The proverbial snake in the garden?”

“Do you feel tempted, Will?”

“I _feel_ like I want to get out of this place.” Will knew that his tone of voice had gone sharp, but Hannibal merely leaned back, the corner of his mouth quirking up.

“The doctor says you can be discharged in a couple days,” Hannibal said pleasantly, seeming unfazed by Will’s prickliness.

Will rubbed his eyes again. “Out of the frying pan and into the fire,” he said wryly, and then flopped back on the bed. “I don’t really want to talk about the case,” he added to the ceiling.

“We can talk about whatever you want, Will. Even if that is nothing at all.”

“I miss my dogs. How would you be willing to accommodate them?”

It was a bold question that Will didn’t realize would leave his mouth until it did. He kept his eyes closed and his hands folded over his chest, pretending to be much less interested in the response than he really was, even as his heart pounded uncomfortably under his hands and his palms became sweaty. He heard a contemplative noise from Hannibal and the sound of him shifting in his chair. Then, after a moment:

“I am willing do whatever I can do to take care of them to your satisfaction. I’m sure I could dog-proof a sufficient number of rooms in my house for them. I don’t have a large backyard, but leashed walks through the city may be an adequate substitution in a pinch. I know very little about dog nutrition or hygiene, but I am willing to learn. And if you would prefer to stay in Wolf Trap, or to move elsewhere, I’m capable of being flexible...”

As Hannibal talked, slowly and carefully, sounding almost apprehensive about his ability to please him, Will felt a strange duality of sensation in chest, both relief and...affection? _Christ,_ it was _affection._ Will couldn’t remember the last time he had felt affection of this magnitude for anyone except his dogs, but here he was, listening to Hannibal discuss how he would accommodate Will’s frankly ridiculous number of strays and feeling overwhelmed with gratitude.

When Hannibal finished talking, Will opened his eyes and turned his head to look at him. “You would do all of that for me?” he whispered.

Hannibal looked at him for a moment, then reached out and took his hand. “There is little I wouldn’t do for you, I’m finding,” he said, his voice soft and vulnerable.

And god _damnit_ , Will was already so far gone, it wasn’t even funny. What was he supposed to do about that?


End file.
